Best Pud Poems
I remember those days when just a kid,
the old ten shilling note, and the odd quid.*
Teddy boys in their drain pipes, fur collars
smelling of nicotine, street wise scholars.
Conkers,* glass alleys* and comics as well,
bow and arrows, gat* to ring the school bell.
Electric tram, trolley bus and steam train
holidays in Blackpool, not yet in Spain.
Left over stew, dripping dispersed on bread,
a choice of marg or jam, not both was spread.
Roly-poly pud with custard, oh yes
school dinners, oh the ridicule the stress.
Journey in to space radio drama,
while bathing in a tin bath pure karma.
Medicals at school and nit nurses too
combing for the eggs, washing with shampoo.
No drugs, only cigs in small packs of five,
fifty fifty dance halls, old and new thrive.
Outside loo, oh them freezing winter nights
oil lamps, a candle to enhance one’s lights.
High street fish and chip shop charging nine pence,
potato crisps, tab* of salt to dispense.
Tanners,* hape’ny’s* and those threp’ny* bits,
meccano sets, clockwork trains came in kits.
Motorbikes, British pride on just two wheels,
Triumph, BSA, a nation reveals.
Alas long gone these balmy days of laze,
happy to have played a part in this phase!
*Quid:::: A one pound note (UK)
*Conkers:;;; Game played with the fruit of the horse chest nut tree.
*Glass Alleys::::: A type of Marble for the game of marbles.
*Gat::::: A catapult, or slingshot..
*Tab::: One brand of crisps in the UK, place a small blue pack of salt in each packet
*Tanners:::: A sixpenny coin
*Hape’ny’s::: A halfpenny coin
*Threp’ny bit::::: A Threepenny 12 sided coin, also called Thrupence depending where one resided in the North of England
.
© Harry J Horsman 2012
Rose you were such a wise lady and a wonderful friend
I continued to visit you almost to the bitter end
Other friends abandoned you because you were so frail
But I continued visit and see your cheeks pinched and pale
How I miss our chats, we’d eat biscuits and drink tea
You were such a wonderful friend to me
You gave me a hydrangea, its flowers a pretty blue
So never a day passes when I don’t think of you
If we could meet again for one more day
We’d share the gossip and laugh our cares away
I’ll never forget when you taught me to line dance
Prancing around your lounge to songs of sweet romance
You practiced reiki and spiritual healing
You’d help me with issues that I was concealing
I remember that Christmas party, you dressed as a Christmas pud
You had me in hysterics the costume you made was oh so good
Breast cancer stole you away and bitter tears I cried
For we were away on holiday at the time you died
Your anniversary gift in our garden still grows
I think of you every day my lovely friend Rose
Contest - Just one more day
Sponsored by Laura Loo
12~12~15
Another Christmas day is finally here
The very thought fills me with such fear
I have to try and control my old Aunty Mable
Once she hits the gin she gets very unstable
Uncle Arthur rushes in and opens the sherry
then sups half the bottle and gets really merry
He begins to sing carols at the top of his voice
I put up with the din… I don’t have much choice!
The last to arrive are old Gladys and Bert
Bert always wears his distasteful Santa shirt
Gladys walks through the door and starts to moan
I wish Bert would leave the old cow at home!
She whines from the moment she removes her coat
And heads for the sofa and grabs the remote
Demanding she has her dinner on her knee -
There’s some crap on the TV that she wants to see
I politely tell Gladys the dinner table is set
And the film will be repeated of that you can bet
So she sits at the table and picks at her starter
then moans very loudly to poor Uncle Arthur
The table’s soon laden with wonderful food
But Gladys is seething, she’s so blinking rude
She says the turkey’s tasteless and it's bone dry
So I pass her the gravy and I try not to cry
Bert finishes the bowl of chestnuts and sprouts
He’ll be passing foul wind in copious amounts
After rich figgy pud he crams in six mince pies …
It’s no wonder he’s gross with huge wobbly thighs
They descend on me each and every year
And eat all my food my wine and my beer
Then we open the gifts that lie under the tree
As per usual they bring just one present for me
Gladys has knitted me a horrendous jumper
it's two sizes too large, I just want to thump her
I dutifully put in on and I feign my delight …
but it will be in the rubbish bin later tonight!
At three we watch The Queen on the telly
Bert’s farting begins; the room gets so smelly
Within minute’s they’re snoring away in their chair
I retreat to the kitchen and silently swear
By the time they wake up all the dishes are done
The doorbell rings; thank god their taxi has come!
This is the LAST time they'll take advantage of me …
Cos I've booked a yule cruise on the Caribbean sea!
Fiction write
12/14/17
Cecilia has set me a challenge – to order my favourite pud
If I can say sticky toffee pudding it would be oh so good
But I may make another error and it could come out so bad
If I said stiffy cockie pudding again it would make me oh so sad
But a thought has just occurred to me – I don’t need to use my voice
My husband can order for me, then I’ll get the pudding of my choice!
1st October 2015
Proud fathers and relatives of the past.
Ghost's of thoose first Irish americans.
Eventhough the ignorant tried to kill us
still we did last.
Using are fists and breaking are backs.
from New York to Boston.
Green blood dries in the tracks.
Beautiful Island of green we left yet still
within are souls you stay.
From Belfast to Dublin In croweded streets
were children play.
Some call us paddy the brave few dare say mic.
Hate filled people casting stones
at the weak and sick.
As we viewed a new promise we
were met with a black eye.
But from the church to the pud.
The Irish were to strong to die.
And for all thoose who fought so I my
may talk to you from this stool I sit.
I promise you children of Eran .
I shall never quit.
So may the people dance and sing while the whiskey
does flow.
Let the young carry the torch
so all may know.
from shamrocks to St Patricks day.
Weve come to far.
So we shall never go away.
To put an end to the myth that Santa lives in Lapland
Santa is a Yorkshire man everybody knows that
People just say he's from Lapland, cos he’s round and fat.
Well Yorkshire men can be the same they are not all dud
All year on the beer and whiskey, washed down with Yorkshire pud.
Santa is a Yorkshire man everybody in Yorkshire knows that
You say the Lapland Santa, glows warm and are red, and fat.
Well Yorkshire Santa’s have glowing bits, but they keep them out of sight
Except on Christmas Eve when their pants have got too tight.
Santa is a Yorkshire man so stop making such a fuss
A Santa who know what’s what, so you can call on us
If your chimney is too tight, Yorkshire Santa will let you know
He’ll leave your present’s elsewhere, and you will have to go.
To collect you gifts is your own fault if your chimney is too small
Don’t expect him to get up there, he doesn’t want to fall.
A spade is a spade wherever you go Santa will tell you that
If you want to get your presents early, try Ilkley moor barh t at.
They meet there on Christmas Eve to swap gifts and stories too
That’s why they all have glowing bits, I bet you would have too.
He doesn’t have time to mess about, you people should know that
Santa is a Yorkshire man, there’s no more to say that’s that.
Yorkshire folk are know for being down to earth and saying what they see, ie a spade is a spade and not an earth moving device.
Ilky Moor Bar tat a famous Yorkshire Folk song where lovers meet and she chides him for not wearing a hat. The winds of the moor causing death and he will be eaten by worms and so on (google it)
Repost fromLast year.
~GG~ 2011 ©
To stop the myth going around that Santa is a Scotsman, a huge hit on the radio here. So fo those that believe this is the truth.
Santa is a Yorkshire man everybody knows that
You just say he is Scottish, cos he’s round and fat.
Well Yorkshire men can be the same they are not all dud
All year on the beer and whisky
Washed down with Yorkshire pud.
Santa is a Yorkshire man everybody here knows that
You say your Scottish Santa’s Glow warm, red and fat.
Well Yorkshire Santa’s have glowing bits, but they keep them out of sight
Except on Christmas Eve when their pants have got too tight.
Santa is a Yorkshire man so stop making such a fuss
A Santa who know what’s what, so you can call on us
If your chimney is too tight, Yorkshire Santa will let you know
He’ll leave your present’s elsewhere, and you will have to go.
To collect you gifts is your own fault if your chimney is too small
Don’t expect him to get up there, he doesn’t want to fall.
A spade is a spade wherever you go Santa will tell you that
If you want to get your presents early, try Ilkley moor bar tat.
They meet there on Christmas Eve to swop gifts and stories too
That’s why they all have glowing bits, I bet you would have too.
He doesn’t have time to mess about, you people should know that
Santa is a Yorkshire man, there’s no more to say that’s that.
Jam roly poly, treacle sponge
And sticky toffee pudding head the top of my list
But apple pie, rhubarb crumble
Or a decent cheesecake are hard to resist
Banana splits, eclairs or brownies
Dumplings, nougat, cheese board or mousse
Crème brûlée. Fruit cocktail. Yoghurt
Serve it up and set me loose!
Rice pudding, Christmas pudding
Let me say it loud and clear
Summer pudding, Eve's pudding
Figgy pudding - bring it here
Cottage pudding, Diplomat pudding
Pancakes served throughout the year
Plum pudding, mango pudding
Put it on a plate and cheer
Hasty pudding, Saxon pudding
Vanilla pudding, chocolate pud
Yorkshire pudding filled with treacle
Make winter evenings warm and good
Sussex Pond pudding, sweet biscotti
Semolina (if that counts?!)
Panna cotta, profiteroles
Gâteaux. Meringues in any amount
I guess spotted dick is a bit of a worry
But to bread and butter pudding, I say "bring it on!"
I could plan on a flan, or a lardy cake
Or butter with glee my scone or scon'
Mince pies, cobblers, baklavas, strudels
Loaves and pastries - all tell a story
Even blancmange has a heritage
To match or beat our knickerbocker glory
There's fruit tarts, jam tarts, custard tarts, egg tarts
Milk tarts, cheese tarts, butter tarts too
Tarts from Manchester, Liverpool and Bakewell
French tarts, Jamaican tarts - to name but a few
Buns from Chelsea, cakes from Eccles
Wafers and muffins from all over the place
Doughnuts filled with jam or chocolate
Made to squirt on your shoulder or face
Strawberries & Cream, Eton Mess
Artic rolls and brandy snaps
Trifles should always be trifled with
If laced with sherry - it's a perfect nightcap
Sorbets leave the palate tingling
Fritters fritter your cares away
Waffles and crêpes warm the spirit
And sundaes are perfect for every day
So, whatever we may call them -
Be it puddings, sweets, desserts or afters
They taste best when shared with company
Served with a spoon, a smile and laughter
Am I a girl, or just a boy,
who wants to be a girl?
Pink dresses don’t make a
vagina,and a football doesn’t
make a cock
Something happened in mum’s
womb, to make me feel like this,
should I cry or should I shout,
when all I want is bliss?
I’m an ice-cream in a Yorkshire
pud, the road ahead is long,
I hope the world won’t judge me;
the path to trans-gender is long
Oh dear I completely misunderstood,
When they offered me a sweat, thought they meant a pud.
Meet us at the gym they said, thought, strange place to eat,
For a free meal I could endure the smell of sweaty feet.
Here’s your towel said the lady, took it with surprise,
opened the door to find a host of sweating thighs.
Bodies grunting everywhere, buzzing like flies
Where’s my sweet I asked, can’t print their replies.
Now I gathered was not pudding my friends offered me,
But a sweaty time in the gym to lose the fat I see.
Promised some chocolate if I manage to get thinner,
Not quite what I envisaged after my roast dinner.
So here I am sweat pouring from a thinner me
Happy ‘cos they are letting me have a biscuit with my coffee.
The smell is good
Just look at the pud
Gammon, Turkey and Beef
Life’s turned over a new leaf
A few balls of stuffing
They aint made of nuffing
Many calories they carry
It’s the sausages I want to marry
Grease torpedoes and crispy potatoes
We know where all that goes
Straight to the hips
For some taste bud kicks
Oh well
Diet go to hell.
On some English grass
On a piece of land forever England
Warriors of the realm
Take holy orders, on their Fathers grave
To defend the honour of their local pub
For this is the noble art of Sunday league Football
The crowds bay for blood
Shouts of foul and blind as a bat
The decision absurd
The referee a drunkard
Shouts of bar steward,
And your mothers questionable character
Cleaned up for posterity
The game goes on
Frank, the winger another yellow card
Another fine, I fear he will be barred
Groans for Bill a night watchman by trade
I think he’s a blade (Sheffield United supporter)
But not a very good keeper I’m afraid
Then there’s the striker
Super king Jack, 40 a day and a cough to match
Will need a penalty to score in this match
What about ken, a beer belly full back,
Rarely runs for fear of a heart attack
And slugger the centre half
Likes to break legs,
And still the only guy to sup a half a keg
Smooth talking tommy pulls birds on the six yard line
Greased black hair, and knobbly knees to match
Still Skill is not this team’s forte, for we are Britain’s
Taking part is our religion
Lost another game two nil
But won three two at fighting, brill
Bottom of the league
Fines galore
First Aid in the pub
A good drink after
Enemies in the field, but forever friends in laughter.
That’s Sunday football league
Home to the wife
And Sunday dinner, roast beef and Yorkshire pud
Another bottle of bud
Feet up, settee calls
Dreams of Wembley, and Sheffield Wednesday
Not a bad life for this Yorkshire clan
Here in Sheffield where football began.
I was playing with my favourite toy
One night as I lay in bed
Grandpa caught me and called me a naughty boy
and this is what he said .
Darren ,I don't mean to be unkind
if you don't stop. You'll go deaf and blind
then You're gonna stop growing
and you'll lose your mind .
Sorry grandpa , I must have misunderstood
I thought it was you who said I should
You said everything in moderation does us good
That's why I've been pulling my pud .
I confess mistakes have been made
I now wear jam jar bottom glasses
and a real strong hearing aid.
It was the night before Christmas
Not a sound was heard
Except for the sound of Mods
Discussing the Foxestalk message board.
The subject was a Christmas party
Which happened every year
There was always panic among them
As the dreaded day drew near.
Who should they invite?
Will there be fights a free for all.
Finally they decided
Sod it we'll ask them all.
It was to be fancy dress
And would cause much fun
They even hoped that a new fan
Cyril the squirrel would come.
At the mods headquarters
They were getting prepared
For what could be a complete disaster
So they were also getting scared.
In a long flowing Shirley Bassey dress
Moosebreath waltzed through the door
Moosebreath says I have finally come out
I'll wear dresses now for evermore.
TPH came as Bob Dylan
Trav La bleu was Elton John
Foxy was John Lennon
Captain Pancake Face Red Rum.
Mike Oxlong Father Christmas
Bellend as a xmas pud
Dangerous Tiger was Lenny The Lion
Which everyone thought was very good.
Lamby came as Nigel Pearson
Which was a big surprise
After five minutes he said
I have work I'll have to fly.
The guests arrived one after the other
Too many to name
Dressed in all types of costume
All willing to join the game.
Jordon travelled from the USA
With a mask of JFK
Spielberg was played by 21st Century Fox
The bloke in the kilt Orkney Fox
Zingari was next and looked weird
He said I am really an alien they do exist
You are in my power now
I have three eyes so do not resist.
Mattp was a late arrival
Dressed as a city gent
He said i stopped to tie a shoelace
And some tramp pissed on my face.
The party went into the night.
All full of Christmas Cheer
Thank you all for coming says Webbo
But next year someone bring some beer.
If you draw your sword so sharp
To skewer me on a night so dark
Stop and ponder what might befall
If my words you chance to spall
A bouquet of thorns, for you I’ll sow it
Take warning fair, beware the poet
I’ll drag your hair out from your crown
Set it aflame to render down
Flesh from bones and skull and pate
Your dome will be my dinner plate
If for your body you care or fret
Take warning fair, beware the poet
I’ll fry your kidney, spleen and lung
Then garnish it with nose and tongue
Your innards I will with pestle pound
And feed them to my trusty hound
Who’ll lap them up with zeal I bet
Take warning fair, beware the poet
I’ll carve your shin bone to a spoon
You’re ears will become two spittoons
Fine shredded cheeks and coarse sliced eyes
Can become lip smacking pies
Each digit will make a fine brochette
Take warning fair, beware the poet
I know ‘twill be a fantastic feast
For family and friends, ten at least
We’ll toast stupidity with your blood
And finish up with sweet, heart pud
It’s no false threat that I emote
Take warning fair, beware the poet
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